


Late is Better than Never

by bunn



Series: War of Wrath [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Beleriand, Family Reunions, Gen, War of Wrath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-28 23:36:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17192342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunn/pseuds/bunn
Summary: Anairë, wife of Fingolfin and mother of two High Kings, goes out at last to war.





	Late is Better than Never

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Grundy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grundy/gifts).



> Most of the Noldor followed Fëanor and Fingolfin to war in Middle-earth, yet Finarfin was still able, somehow to raise a host to lead to the War of Wrath. Because most of those we hear of that stayed in Tirion were women, I think the host of the Noldor in the War of Wrath must have been largely female.

Anairë’s stomach roiled, although the ships lined up in long rows along the quays of Alqualondë were still, and the sea was tranquil. Uinen had spoken peace upon the clear green waters for the great fleet to load its many passengers. 

But ahead of them lay war. Unfamiliar, terrifying, with a strange, unfamiliar, almost guilty thrill to the idea of it. Nolofinwë, reluctant, furious, grimly determined, had marched out to war with all her children beside him, and every one of them was dead. Now it was their turn. 

It had been dark then, bitter dark and cold and silent, after the death of the Trees, after the nightmare of the deaths at Alqualondë. Now the sun shone fiercely, glittering on the clear water, catching the sails of the great ships. Overhead, white birds were crying. Perhaps Elwing was up there with them, white feathers against the deep blue sky, Elwing, one of the messengers that had come at last, beyond all hope, bearing the Silmaril. Elwing, and Eärendil. It was easier to think of Elwing than of Eärendil: the great-grandson she had met only as a warrior grown. 

She had never seen Itarillë hold her baby, had not seen her marry. Did not know where she was, though Ulmo had given them his word that Itarillë was, somewhere, safe. Eärendil’s children were not safe. They were, probably, dead, and another thing that could not be thought about too carefully was what on earth could have been done to Nerdanel’s boys that had ruined them so terribly that they would slay helpless children, only six years old... At least her children had escaped that. They were warned, now. They knew what they were facing, and they knew that it must end. 

She adjusted the sword-belt for the hundredth time, not because it needed adjusting, but because it was something to do with her hands. All around her, Noldor in armour stood, trying to look resolute, just as she was. 

But these were her people to command. She, of all of them, must not falter. 

All the troops and their weapons had now embarked, and her... no, not handmaiden any more. She no longer had a handmaiden. She had a lieutenant. Her lieutenant had come to report that they were ready to depart. 

She turned to Eärwen, standing beside her. “We are ready,” she said, though Eärwen must know that already. 

Eärwen, wide-eyed in a sailor’s shirt and breeches with her hair knotted up, nodded and took a deep breath. She looked back over her shoulder, and Anairë knew she was looking towards the quays and houses of Alqualondë, and up towards the great heights of the Pelóri mountains and the pass of the Calacirya, to Tirion. 

Anairë did not, could not follow her eyes. She looked only East, where the Enemy awaited them. 

 

****

 

Middle-earth loomed dark ahead of them under clouds that were not the purple-blue storm-clouds of Manwë, but a terrible dead red-black, as if ash were mingled through them. This was what Findekáno had died to try to stop, this was the horror that had come for Turukáno in his hidden city of Gondolin. 

This was what had slain Eärwen’s children too, all of them save Artanis. She turned to Eärwen. “You won’t change your mind?” 

Eärwen’s face was pale and drawn, but resolute. “The orders for the fleet are to put the Vanyar and the Noldor host ashore, but the Teleri are not to set foot on land. You know that.” 

“I do,” Anairë said, and bit back the ‘but’. Eärwen’s husband was leading the Noldor host, and they had lost more than enough already. Eärwen took her hand for a moment, and seemed about to speak, but then she let it go, wordless. There were no words for the mingled hope and fear of this moment.

The ships were coming in towards the dark and clouded shore, thousands strong like a flock of great birds. Somewhere off to Anairë’s right there was a little island, smaller far than Tol Eressëa, where blue flags marked with stars still fluttered against the sky. That must be the isle that Eärendil had spoken of, where young Gil-galad, last King of the Noldor in Middle-earth, still survived with the few survivors of what had been the mighty army that had followed Nolofinwë across the Ice. 

But that was not what Anairë was concerned with now. Eärwen was shouting commands, and the Teleri sailors trimmed the sails and turned the ship to follow the ship that carried Arafinwë the King. 

The Teleri flagship captained by Olwë was some way behind them, carrying Ingwion and the Vanyar high command, but it had been agreed the first to land would be the Noldor host; Anairë was not sure herself whether to count it an honour, or a penance for the ruin of the fleet of Alqualondë. 

The ships turned nimbly head to wind and anchored, and now the first of the Noldor host were pouring into the rowing boats, for there were no quays left in Middle-earth where such ships could come to harbour. 

The journey across the bay in the small boats seemed to take an Age, then suddenly it was over, and she leaped from the boat with her company behind her, to follow Arafinwë and Eönwë, Herald of the Valar, as they strode forward, resolute under the gloomy clouds. The beaches and the willow-trees behind them seemed dark and ominous.

Eönwë, bright in his armour, swept out a great horn, bound with silver and marked with shining runes, and put it to his lips. The sound it made was quiet at first, a clear high note that shone bright above the hushing of the waves, and then broke into an urgent fanfare, louder, louder still, until the land all around seemed to shake with it, and Anairë caught her breath. A wind from the Sea arose, singing a note that chimed with the sound of the horn, and began to push the heavy clouds back. 

There was no sign of the Enemy, save for the gloom, and a strange silence that seemed to wrap the land as if in a fog of doubt. The sound of Eönwë’s horn fell into it and died away. 

 

Then, all at once, the silence was over. Out of the dark trees and the broken rocks of Middle-earth rose a great black-clad company, screaming hate, and they charged at the foremost company, with Arafinwë and Eönwë in their midst, with the golden banners of Arafinwë and the white banners of Valinor above them. 

 

Anairë ripped her new and shining sword from the scabbard, and shouted over her shoulder as loudly as she could; “To the King!” 

 

****

 

It was a short battle, that first battle upon the shores of Arvernien. No more than a test of their strength and resolve, or so it would seem, later. 

Yet Anairë came from that first battle with black blood upon her blade, and a sense that the grim steel resolution in her heart had seen her through. 

She was still cleaning her blade her eyes ranging from tree to stone to ditch, looking out for the second wave of orcs that must surely come soon, when she heard a clear voice call from behind her, a voice that she had not heard in over five hundred years of the Sun. She whirled, and blinked, half-unbelieving, at the armoured figure that had come up from the cluster of boats upon the shore. “Artanis?” 

“Hello, Aunt Anairë.” Artanis surveyed the land with a practiced eye, and made a swift hand gesture to the people in weathered, well-used armour that had come with her, so that they fanned out cautiously. She herself looked, by comparison with the shining hosts still disembarking from the boats, as if she had probably slept in her armour for a month or so, and had forgotten that had ever seemed uncomfortable. 

“Oh.” Anairë said. “Oh, Artanis. You are still alive.” 

“You came,” Artanis said, that shining smile dawning upon her fair face. “We’d all but given up on hope that any help would come. But here you are.”

“I know we left it late,” Anairë admitted, and put her arms around her niece. “But we have come at last, and we will not be going home until the job is done.” 

Artanis pulled her close for a brief moment, tall and strong as she had always been, but something about her seemed steadier now, her flame perhaps a little less passionate, but stronger. Then she asked, urgently, “Mother didn’t come?” 

“Not to set foot in Middle-earth,” Anairë said. "But she is not far away. She is on the ship out there, with the blue sails and the swan-head. And your father is here.  Let us go and find him.” 


End file.
